Goldringer
by owned
Summary: I wrote this in 9th grade, convinced that my "witty" pun of a title would carry the whole piece. It didn't... R/R, if you please


James Bond, 007, licensed to kill  
  
In  
  
1 GoldRinger  
  
James Bond stared reflectively into his glass of double bourbon. He didn't know if he could stand it any longer. He was softening. He was man of action, a man of war who had been living in peace for a year. Ironically, it felt to him as if peace was killing him. He looked down at himself. It actually looked as if he was growing love handles, flab around his waist. His scars had almost healed and the nasty cut down his right leg had disappeared. He felt conspicuous in his touristy Bermudas, tropical shirt and brown sandals. The Chief-of-Staff had called him thirty minutes ago, and he had no time to change.  
  
M had been making small talk for the past five minutes. The junior man was getting impatient. What the hell was he waiting for? Blades hadn't been the best place to meet, after all. Grimley came by, offering M some Dom Perignon, '46. M, always the connoisseur, graciously accepted. Why the hesitation, the secrecy? Bond studied the ex-seaman's lined face and could find nothing unusual other than the slight frown furrowing his brow, replacing the comforting tranquil.  
  
M finally began, "You've been at this agency longer than I care to remember, 007, and there's almost no-one I trust more than you. You see, there's a problem, a big one. Do you know Stanton, 009?"  
  
M had called him 007… a mission at last? He certainly hoped so.  
  
"Yes, sir, I recall him. We were stationed together in Turkey, I think it was. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Someone took down his operation, he was in Russia, working on cracking one of Blofeld's operations. It was a massacre, James. Somebody knew he was going in. We suspect it was B.A.D.A.S.S. (Baddies Alliance towards Destruction of All Secret Services), another section of Blofeld's organization. At worst, we have a leak somewhere. At best, it was a guess on Blofeld's part. Either way, we can't take a chance. All our agents, both 00s and the rest, are working full-time on finding the leak, but any one of them could be the informant. You're one of the only ones I trust to do this job right. In fact, I think my office is bugged, which is exactly why I wanted to meet here. It's casual and away from the others. See Ms. Kelly back at HQ for a couple of – "  
  
Bond interrupted M, for the first time ever, "Kelly? Who's she and where's Penny? Might be worth checking her out, just in case."  
  
M, cold grey eyes showing, for once, a bit of exasperation, answered firmly, "I don't think that that will be necessary, James. Miss Moneypenny selected her personally, and I trust her choice as much as I trust my own."  
  
"Yes, sir, of course. I'll get on it, immediately", Bond replied rather hastily. What was bugging the old man? He certainly hadn't gone crazy but trusting anyone so completely? When Bond thought about it, M had never really admitted that he had complete faith in Bond, or Penny. He'd check it out anyway.  
  
James Bond, 007 went home and changed to his usual outfit – black jacket, black trousers, white shirt without a tie, and black shoes. Ms. Kelly seemed innocent enough, a matronly old woman in her early 50's, she was dressed in a dull, grey, shapeless dress. It wasn't surprising she was still a Miss.  
  
"Where's M's usual secretary, Miss Moneypenny?" inquired Bond.  
  
"Away", came the curt reply.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Holiday, Switzerland"  
  
It seemed she wasn't very talkative. Was she avoiding him? He needed to talk to Penny, in order to find out where this queer old hag had come from.  
  
"I need a contact number"  
  
"And who might you be, sir?" asked Miss Kelly, finally looking up from her paperwork.  
  
"Bond," said the dashing young gentleman, "James Bond"  
  
"I'm sorry, but she's left nothing of the sort, not for the likes of you, at least"  
  
"Pardon me, let me reintroduce myself" Bond didn't even lose his cool, "James Bond, Agent 007."  
  
The woman mumbled some sort of apology before fishing out a number from somewhere in her, - no, not hers - Penny's drawer.  
  
It was aggravating, indeed, even to someone like James Bond, that he could not get his call through. He'd have to fly down there. Hopefully, she needed some help, in a romantic wooden chalet, with a flaming fireplace and a comfortable rug neatly placed in front of it. He wormed his way out of his paperwork and left for Switzerland, cleared to leave the country. After an unexciting plane trip, an aggravating taxi driver, an unrelenting German Shepherd and a stupid bellboy, Bond finally made it to his room. The ordeal was not over, however. He still had to make it to Penny's place. That leg of the course was tomorrow, so he had the whole day ahead of him. Heading down to the bar seemed a good idea, at the time. A stiff drink and, hopefully, a Swedish bombshell awaited him there. At least, he got the drink, and not just one, at that. He was a strong man, and it would take more than a few drinks to bowl him over.  
  
Next morning, the hangover lingered... and why was there a G-string on his bed? All it took was a shower to get him eager to leave the hotel. Getting to the private chalet by taxi was no mean feat, but at least he got a good look at the picturesque scenery. Snowy trees adorned the landscape, whizzing by, on and on. He snapped out of the trance once he got there. Paying the fare, he got out of the cab and looked at the place. It looked more like some kind of broken down shack than a chalet, but if it was good enough for Penny, it was good enough for him. It was right on the edge of a cliff, a sheer drop of 60 metres. Inside, it was better though. Miss Moneypenny was very surprised to see him, and let him in immediately. She looked alluring in her mink coat, somehow. She had been working, apparently… on a holiday? They talked a bit, about what they had been doing for the past few months.  
  
Just as James was about to ask the question, his hand fell quite innocently on her knee. That was all it took for her to explode, almost literally. She must have bottled up several years worth of sexual tension, because nothing else on earth could have propelled that high in the air and on top of him. Was it just him or was something wrong with all women? Flirting in office was one thing but a fling in Switzerland with the boss's secretary was quite another. They rolled on the floor, until he was on top. He cupped one hand under her breast as she studied his eyes. They were a cold, steely blue, just as she remembered. The last thing she remembered was that hard, cruel mouth coming down on her lips.  
  
Bond woke up tied to the bed. What was going on? Penny was sitting at her desk, talking to somebody on the phone. It was a fancy phone, the kind with diamond studded buttons and a golden earpiece. She was speaking in… what was it? German? She put the phone down, angrily. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. Wait… she never smoked, did she? Was it even her? She coughed her prim, polite little cough; it was her, all right. It was a twist, like that of a switchblade in your thigh. He wondered if he had any of Q's gadgets on him.. but if he had, Penny would have taken them off. She knew how resourceful he could be.  
  
"Ahh, James, darling, you're awake!" she exclaimed, coolly.  
  
He made a show of looking groggy and stunned. "Huuhhh?"  
  
"That's nice, dear. Blofeld's goonies will be over in a minute"  
  
Bond's ears perked up. Blofeld? So he had bought her out.  
  
"Penny? Could you come here and scratch my nose please?"  
  
The girl came over, gracefully gliding over the carpeted floor. Daintily, she rubbed the bridge of his sharp nose. He smiled gratefully. It was the intoxicating one, the one no girl could do without, the one that could melt a chocolate bar at twenty paces. She was drawn in, hook, line and sinker.  
  
"One more time, for old time's sake?" he pleaded with her.  
  
"One more time, dear, just one more", she replied, almost hypnotized by those bewitching lips. As soon as he was able to, he swung his arm out and knocked her over. Snapping out of it, she scrambled for her gun. James beat her to it. He had a soft spot for her, he couldn't shoot her, but he could hit her across the head with its butt and that's exactly what he did. She slumped to the floor, unconscious. After retrieving his gun of choice, his trusty Beretta, he took a look out the window. Someone was coming, driving up in a car. Two carefully aimed shots were all it took to make the driver lose control and the vehicle skittered over the edge of the cliff. He picked up his boss's secretary, slung her over his shoulder and, stopping briefly to pick up a pack of cigarettes and switch off the lights, began the long hitchhike to the airport. 


End file.
